Another Adventure
by Kang Xiu
Summary: So this was not an adventure; it was a last stand. It was not against a people he hated; it was for the benefit of a people he soundlessly objected to." Nemo is alone.


Another Adventure

"The sea is calling me home, home to you

The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you

On a dark new year's night

On the west coast of Clare

I heard your voice singing.

Your eyes danced the song,

Your hands played the tune.

T'was a vision before me.

We left the music behind and the dance carried on

As we stole away to the seashore

And smelt the brine, felt the wind in our hair

And with sadness you paused.

Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go.

Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so.

Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time

And I wondered why.

As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea,

A vision came o'er me,

Of thundering hooves and beating wings

In the clouds above.

As you turned to go, I heard you call my name

You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its

Wings to fly.

'The old ways are lost,' you sang as you flew

And I wondered why.

The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you.

The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.

The pounding waves are calling me home, home to you.

The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you."

"The Old Ways", Loreena McKennitt

Another adventure. He had not wanted another adventure. There was no moment in which he'd suddenly thought, I could be happy if I was playing with death. I could be satisfied with one more chance to sink the ship of some race of people I hated and watch the rush of bubbles that came from everything dying--the last breath of the sailors, the captain, and the ship itself. If only I had one last opportunity!

He had never thought anything like that. If the truth were told, he was tired of it. One could only hate so much before it became wearying. Suddenly, he had become disillusioned with it. They would never listen; sinking their ships would never show them they were wrong; killing their people would never make them free his.

He had not wanted another adventure when he joined the League. He had wanted another way to show the British people he was not an ignorant savage and not a poor, weak fool who resented them because they looked finer and ate better. Others of his countrymen might have hated them for that; he hated them because they thought they owned him.

He would never let anyone think that.

But he hated them very differently now. His hate was softer, quieter. It had gone from one wild, general, everconstant loathing of them all to thought-out, dignified anger that surfaced only when someone provoked it. Usually, he didn't even mention that he hated them. It didn't matter. And there was no one to mention it to.

All his men knew already, and, as the boy Sawyer had pointed out somewhat gracelessly, the Extraordinary Gentlemen were a League, and not a team. The members of this League kept to themselves. He didn't try to draw them out.

So this was not an adventure; it was a last stand. It was not against a people he hated; it for the benefit of a people he soundlessly objected to...

Nemo sat at the long table in the dining room, tapping his fingers on the surface thoughtfully. The Nautilus would make Venice by to-morrow. She /had/ to make Venice by to-morrow. He had spoken once or twice with Allan Quatermain about how they would enter and what would happen, but apart from that, the others seemed to shy away from the subject.

Did they think they would succeed? Were they afraid? Two of them, at least, were immortals... But the boy Sawyer, was he afraid of being killed the way his companion had been? Did Skinner wonder if he'd be slain and his body never found? Was the Doctor frightened of dying before he found a way to put himself back together again?

Then Nemo's thoughts became distracted as he wondered what would happen if the Doctor was killed while he was Hyde. Would he never change back and be gone forever, as though he'd never existed? Or would Hyde, as the second form, shrivel and leave behind the body of the man who'd created him?

Just then, Quatermain entered, and Nemo looked up.

"Good evening, Captain."

"Good evening, Mr. Quatermain."

"That, er, that Sawyer. He's a quick learner. I spent this afternoon trying to teach him to shoot, and he could hold his weapon properly by the time I went down."

"Oh?"

"Didn't hit the target, but he was close."

"Yes, those targets, Mr. Quatermain. I would prefer it if you could find something else to shoot at. The sea is a very pure thing, and--"

"You mean you want me to find something I can clean up afterwards?" Quatermain's voice was sceptical and he looked at Nemo askance.

"Or something that will be absorbed in the ocean, yes. That is preferable, as cleaning things up is nearly impossible."

The expression on Quatermain's face had gone from incredulity to exasperation, but he nodded, and said, "Very well, Captain. I'll see about that."

"Thank you. Passerculus will help you. He is the man who produced the targets you have been using."

"All right."

"I do hope, Mr. Quatermain, that you've not misconstrued my request. I do not mean to reprimand you; I merely point out that these seas are my home, and I would prefer they remain unpolluted by... things of the earth."

"I understand. I suppose I'd feel the same if someone was threatening to cover Africa with London's air."

"It is comparable."

"I never quite understood you for thinking the ocean was your home, you know. You can't really walk or hunt in it, can you?"

"I think you would be surprised, Mr. Quatermain. I can walk on the bottom of the sea and hunt on sunken islands. I have everything you might have in Africa, I believe--I even have tall grasses through which I might stalk my prey, if I were so inclined."

"But it's not the same thing." Quatermain seated himself, a tone having crept into his voice which suggested he was ready for a good debate. "There's no feeling. You can do all of it, but you're inside a sort of water suit, aren't you? You can call the current the wind, but you can't feel it touching your skin, can you?"

Nemo did not want a good debate. "I don't believe I'd want to," he said with finality, trying to put an end to the discussion. "Now--" He rose.

"Now, Captain. You can't say you've never once imagined feeling firm ground under your feet and smelling air that isn't full of salt?"

"I haven't."

This was not true. India had forests, deep forests with things hiding in them. There were things with painted eyes that looked through spreading leaves and bared ivory teeth. There were smells in those forests of damp earth and thick, plant-filled air. The sky was hard to see there.

Nemo sometimes missed those forests, now that he no longer had an overwhelming hate to fill his eyes and nose and mouth. The hate had been very clever at making him forget that there were things he loved.

So he looked at Quatermain almost sadly, threading his fingers through each other.

"You've never imagined it?" said Quatermain. He looked incredulous again.

"Perhaps," Nemo replied quietly, sitting back down.

"Ah!"

For a moment, Nemo thought Quatermain was going to be disagreeable and British and begin harping at him because he'd admitted to having a feeling for land somewhere, but instead the man nodded.

Nemo unthreaded his fingers. "Do you hate the Nautilus, Mr. Quatermain? Would you rather be back on your solid African land hunting creatures for small parts of their bodies and leaving the rest to rot?"

"I don't see how it's any different than diving for pearls in the long run. Oysters are smaller, that's all."

Nemo blinked. Of all the--Quatermain had a /point/. By Shiva. "I yield," he said, raising his eyebrows a little.

"Thank you." Quatermain grinned. "But as to your question, I'd rather be back in Africa, yes. I don't like ships. I don't like this contraption especially. Man's stranded in the middle of the ocean in a thing that could fill up with water--something closed in and dark and full of water..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

"Are you well, Mr. Quatermain?"

"I'm fine, Captain. I'm just remembering a time in Africa when I was caught in a tunnel and couldn't find a way out. Of course, with the aid of my companions..."

"You succeeded and came out of the episode triumphantly and with even more merit to your name, I believe. Yes. You had a habit of doing that, Mr. Quatermain."

"I've told Sawyer and I'm not happy to repeat it, Captain: it's cost me dear."

"Such things tend to do so."

"Yes, I suppose you know all about it."

"Perhaps." For the second time, Nemo rose. Once again, he was sick of the discussion, and he thought he might go to the salon and play the organ. It was sometimes soothing, in an odd way. It forced him to concentrate on something else and think deeply on things that weren't India and his quiet hatred and the situation now that was so amazingly improbable and--and quite stupid, too.

"What on earth do you mean, 'perhaps'?" Quatermain, too, had risen. "It was my son! I'd trade in my adventures for my son!"

"I would trade mine for my wife and children. Please, Mr. Quatermain."

"--You would trade and so would I. Have you realised we're almost alike. Did you want to be one of M's curiosities like Jekyll or Skinner? We're almost alike. We're the only two who look old."

"I know." There were better reasons than the ones Quatermain had named, but there were reasons. And at any rate, Nemo thought he understood. Quatermain was right. He had often looked at Gray or Ms. Harker and wondered how old they were and if they felt it although they did not seem it. But they frustrated him slightly because he couldn't tell anything about them.

He could tell things about Quatermain.

Quatermain had not wanted another adventure.

"D'you ever wonder what you're doing here, going off and doing this for a country you don't really care about anyway?"

"I have," Nemo admitted, but it didn't feel much like an admission.

"Why did you?"

"To protect India. A war in Europe--"

"Might spread to her colonies?" suggested Quatermain.

"Indeed."

"That's what that Reed fellow said to me."

"Then we know what we're doing, Mr. Quatermain, going off and doing this for a country we don't really care about anyway." Nemo picked his way over Quatermain's words gingerly. The turn of phrase was not what he would have chosen.

"You're right, Captain; we do." Quatermain's eyes seemed sorrier, and Nemo couldn't blame him. He had already decided that as soon as the bombing of Venice was prevented, he would return to the sea and never let any man draw him out of it again. But there was another look in Quatermain's eyes beside the sorry, and Nemo unthreaded his fingers so he could hold his darkish hands out.

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Quatermain," he said, and his face turned rather sad as Quatermain took one of his hands and kissed it.

"Captain--"

"I understand. We're almost alike, are we not?"

"Very nearly."

Quatermain's breath was hot and his lips were dry. Nemo almost smiled, though gravely, as he brushed Quatermain's cheek with his forefinger. The skin was creased and worn and in a few places, unobtrusively pocked. Strange. It felt--Quatermain felt--like something real. Almost like himself.

Then, suddenly, Quatermain ducked back. "I beg your pardon, Captain."

Nemo raised his eyebrows and began rethreading his fingers slowly. "Please don't, Mr. Quatermain."

"/You/ do think we'll save Venice, don't you?"

"I believe we have more than a chance."

"And then?"

"I shall go home, Mr. Quatermain. I shall take Nautilus back under the sea and find a quiet place. Perhaps I shall find myself an island no one else knows about."

"I see. I suppose I'll go home, too. I wonder if Africa will look the same. Do you ever wonder something like that? 'Will it be the same as it was when I left it?', nevermind that it can't have really changed in the time you've been away."

"Sometimes," said Nemo softly, nodding.

"Well. Thank you, Captain. I think I'll try to get some work done. I've been reading the files closely."

"Very well. Good evening, Mr. Quatermain."

"Good evening."

Alone once more, Nemo sat at the long table in the dining room, tapping his fingers on the surface thoughtfully. The Nautilus would make Venice to-morrow. What would happen then?

Would they succeed?

Would Quatermain return to Africa and would it have stayed the same? Would he himself find the island he had so fancifully mentioned?

Aside from what either of them had said, how much would things have changed?

Another adventure. He had not wanted another adventure. He was tired of that wild, mad sort of thing. Really, he had no desire to do anything more that would cause him to have rushes of trembling fear and bursts of euphoria or made him giddy because of the hugeness of what he was doing.

But he had not wanted to be alone, either.

Janthinus, his first mate since Ishmael had been killed, was a tall, quiet man who would rather watch the sea than speak of it. Janthinus guided the Nautilus through the water now. He was very good at it, and Nemo no longer was.

Oddly, he felt more alone now that he was old and had to stay on the divan in the salon much of the time. Now his men visited him on different days. Perhaps Novisimme would be in to-day to sit by him and tell him what fish were passing by the window of the salon, because due to his failing eyesight, he couldn't make them out well. Perhaps to-morrow it would be Lolligo, telling him how everyone was and where they were and smiling, which made Nemo sad. Lolligo was not really in the habit of smiling. It was a sort of great gift or great sacrifice always to do so when he visited his captain. But despite that, Nemo felt more alone now.

Quatermain, whom he had reassured that one night, had not gotten to see Africa again, and would never know whether it had changed or not.

Ms. Harker had left the Nautilus some time ago, still looking as though she were twenty-five, and moved to Scotland.

Skinner had grown tired of living in the ocean, and borrowed the little ship's boat without returning it. Nemo forgave him that, however. He would have grown quickly tired of living on the land.

Sawyer only wanted to go as far as home, so the Nautilus left him on the coast of North America almost immediately.

Dr. Jekyll had stayed the longest, but he became increasingly prone to changing to Hyde. When the formula was all finished, he had weakened sufficiently to catch a lingering illness and finally died close to ten years ago. Now Nemo knew--when the Doctor died, so did Hyde. He had still, twenty-three years later, thought of his speculations the day before they reached Venice.

So, now, he was alone and old with his ageing crew.

He had not wanted another adventure, but he had taken it, he said, to "show the British people he was not an ignorant savage and not a poor, weak fool who resented them because they looked finer and ate better". But he had also, perhaps far more strongly than he admitted, not wanted be alone.

And now he was alone.

Suddenly, he felt a small swish of air by his elbow. "Captain?" Deinde's voice murmured gently.

"Yes?"

"We've reached land. We've found an island which appears to be uninhabited and has several subterranean caves filled with water. Janthinus suggests that this will be the perfect place to make berth and perhaps to live, if you still wish to do so--"

"Thank you, Deinde," said Nemo, feeling relief fill him and chase some of the cold out of his threaded fingertips. He would have his quiet island after all. "Inform Janthinus that I would indeed like him to make berth."

"At once, Captain," Deinde's voice said, and there was another small swish at Nemo's elbow as he was again left by himself. However, he hardly noticed.

This was another adventure, but now it was one he wanted.

Fin


End file.
